Exception
by WildflowerWhisper
Summary: Perhaps Aragorn was not the only foster-child safeguarded in Imladris during the Third Age. And perhaps he was not the last child of the Dunedain at all. Perhaps, just maybe, there had been an exception. This is the exception's story.
1. Introduction

Many pieces of the puzzle came together with which to get this story off of the ground.

The first piece was a scene I wrote between Calahdra and her father in Chapter 26 of Ever and Ever. It was simply a scene, a conversation, a memory in which a father spoke to his young, beloved daughter. As I wrote the scene, a feeling of such joy came over me that I knew that my next piece of work had to be centered around a child and her relationship with her parents. The innocence of youth has always captivated me, and in that moment, as the words appeared upon the screen, I knew that I needed to write about it.

And then I watched Born of Hope, which is a fairly decent portrayal of Arathorn and Gilraen's relationship by way of independent film. In the very first scene, a young girl stands bewildered and terrified in the heart of an orc attack upon her family. Her name is given as Maia, and her fate is vague.

I will admit now and only now that I am borrowing her for this story, and I owe her existence to the writer's of Born of Hope.

Finally, I had been meaning to play with around with a homosexual elf relationship for some time. Not slash simply for the sake of erotica, but a genuine male/male relationship that encompassed ALL parts of such a relationship.

And then it all just slipped together.

What if the fates of all three were intertwined? What if these three became a family? What role would they play in the darkening days of the Third Age?

But the deeper questions remain unanswered. Can such fates (mortal/immortal, young girl/gay father figures) intertwine? Is such a family possible? And how would such a relationship (and this is the $64,ooo question) fit into the ibigger picture/i?

We shall have to wait and see, I guess…


	2. Chapter 1: Rider and Child

Fey smog had settled about the forest, and with it came a leaching of what little color remained in these borderlands. On the wind a stench much like rotting flesh was carried.

A horse snorted in disgust, and a rider sought to calm him.

"Hush, Rocharon," the rider hissed, his hand now upon his hunting knife.

The rider knew that he had ventured too far into woods, and he knew very well what it might cost him. Orcs were ever present in these lands, now, for as of late they had taken to hunting the Dunedain like wolves.

i_"And this smell,"_ thought the rider, _"It is so much like…,"/i_

But he shook his head of the thought, not wanting to remind himself of such days. Memories of the dragon, of the legions of orcs, and of his first life never failed in bringing him anguish.

But in truth, the stench iwas/i much like that of Glaurung, or of any dragon, for it was the stench that accompanied the burning of many corpses, the plague, and evil. It was the smell of darker times of war.

The rider cursed himself for straying so far from the rest of the hunting party. If he was taken now by surprise, he doubted he would know the way to help.

He turned his horse around and set back upon his trail, casting glances over his shoulder frequently.

But for all his concern, a reverie settled about him almost at once. It was all too easy as of late for his mind to wander back to his lover's words of scorn and bitterness.

For a long time, he had spent a great deal of time thinking of brilliant rebuttals with which to use against the cruel words cast his way. He prided himself in developing his own insults and slights in his spare time.

But years pass, as they often do between people who have no energy to either restore or end their love for another, and now the rider could do nothing more but siphon through errant comments and harsh fights.

A sudden, unsought for power, as if a fishing hook had suddenly caught his heart, pulled him from himself. He pulled his weapon and looked about in alarm. Upon noticing that Rocharan was merely annoyed and not afraid, he lowered the blade and blinked.

Upon further inspection of his whereabouts, it did not take the well seasoned hunter long to spot a reason for concern. In the weeds along the trail, a wayward piece of fabric rested.

The rider dismounted and led his thoroughly irritated steed towards the object.

"What is this?" he asked aloud, having crouched before the fabric. With nimble fingers, he turned the deep blue over in his hands. "A child's cloak," was his bewildered reply to his own question.

"But how could such a thing find its way here? These are but deer trails, and there is no wind in this land,"

And then he noticed the child to which the cloak belonged to. She lay haphazardly amongst the detritus of the forest, and was splattered with all sorts of mud and bracken. In one hand, she held a cloth doll that had seen far better days. The other hand was pressed to her face, and the rider saw that her thumb was in her mouth.

The rider leapt to her at once, and pulled her into his arms.

i_"So pale is she,"_ he thought, cradling her tighter, _"But quite alive, I think, if I have learned anything of healing,"/i  
_ And as if his thoughts were a cue, the child opened her eyes. She startled with a squeak, but could say nothing, for she was quite parched.

"I shall not hurt you, child. I am a friend," he said to her, and she eased a little.

He pulled his flask from his belt a let her take a long drink from it.

"There, that should help your voice. Now tell me, little one, what is you name?"

"Father said that I should not give my name to strangers," she said sternly.

The rider chuckled. "Nor are children supposed to accept drinks from men with great knives and hooded heads, but come. I will not use your name against you, little one. I ask purely out of manners,"

The child seemed to consider this with deep thought, and then gave her name as Maia.

"That is a queenly name," Was the rider's answer, and secretly he thought it unfit for a mortal girl. "And tell me, where is your home?"

"Masto," she said, now looking with interest at Rocharon.

"You home is called 'village'. Very well, then," the rider said, amused by the mere simplicity of it. "And can you tell me why it is that you are so far from Masto?"

The child's face grew grayer, and the rider almost regretted posing the question. Tears welled up in the youth's eyes, and her arms began to choke her raggedy doll in a fearsome death grip.

"I do not know," she murmured. And she began to cry in dry, silent sobs.

The rider pulled her close and stroked her matted hair. He looked downwind and scowled, now sure of the wretched stink's source.

"_I know,"_ he thought, and his mind was made.

The child slept before him, her head drooping to her chest. The rider checked her breathing ever so often, still not confident in his abilities to affirm her condition. She was after all, very small.

_"She cannot be more than ten," _he thought, and as Dúnedain grew, that made her no more than five in comparison to the average human babe.

And as for her size, it was the mere lack of it that the rider used as his excuse for her having escaped.

In honesty, he did not know what it was that he was to do with her. But leaving her had not been an option, and therefore she sat upon a deeply disturbed Rocharon.

Disturbed, too, were the rider's party, for they had meant to set out hours ago.

"He has gotten himself lost again, the fool," they said to each other, but in hushed voices, for they felt shame in disparaging a doer of great deeds as well as their captain.

But their words were in fact true, for despite all his deeds, the rider had become careworn and thoughtless as of late. 'Like an angst-ridden, heartbroken girl,' Master Elrond himself had said.

But the label of heartbreak held some truth as well, for the spawn of the rider's despondency was in fact a relationship that had been crumbling for years. And now, all that was left was a pile of ashes from which a phoenix was not likely to rise. For phoenixes arise in times of great need and suffering and neither of the aforementioned lovers had yet the energy to feel either need or suffering.

Like a caged pair of elderly songbirds they seemed, for they had been stuffed in a cage that was far too small and meanwhile continued to call out two contrasting, boastful songs. The competition amongst them had once fueled their passion. Now, it was like a canker upon a dying plant, causing pain upon something that was already withering of its own accord.

But the cage, despite having almost rusted through, still held. The iron ties of memory and youth still held fast. And thus, their broiling contempt endured.

The rider happened upon his men eventually, and their enamored moods abated long enough for them to ask after the addition to their party.

"She is called Maia, and her village was sacked by orcs. I wish to take her to Imladris, I think, for she may have deeper wounds than I or anyone of us may devise,"

His riders said little, for although they disliked the idea of a plain mortal coming to the Last Homely House, they had long trusted their leader and all of his plots.

And so they set back, having already accomplished much as far as orc-hunting was concerned. Some, having been touched by the sight of the young girl, wished to avenge her and haunt those that had burned her village, but their master would have none of it. His thoughts were turned only to her future.

When she awoke many hours later, she asked him where they were going.

"To Imladris, little one, where you will be safe,"

She considered this with the same expression she had worn when they first met, her eyes looking distant while her cheeks and brow were screwed up in concentration. The sight warmed some part the rider's heart, but cooled another, for although the look was amusing, it also told him that she had aged far more than she appeared.

"You asked my name," she said at last, as she readjusted her doll in her arms, "May I ask yours?"

"My name little one? Well, I guess you may call me Glorfindel, for it is the name that most know me by,"


	3. Chapter 2: Little Light

The company moved with haste to the northeast, stopping only briefly to let their steeds drink. For three days they traveled without sleep or a proper meal, living only on what plants the wild provided.

Glorfindel was ever vigilant of his charge, and his concern for her grew every day. She had become listless and mute, and her temples burned with a fever.

"It is shock," said Glorfindel's second in command, Gollon. "Be mindful of her yet, but do not worry. Master Elrond will right her,"

But Glorfindel was not convinced, for a pallid gloom had settled upon her, and she seemed to quake at the sight of passing shadows or the noises of woodland creatures. When she slept, she would sleep only for an hour or so before awaking from some fitful nightmare.

At one point, she awoke with such a scream that the horses startled and the riders cursed. Glorfindel halted at once, and held her to him as she croaked with anguish.

"Papa!" she cried, "PAPA!"

"Hush, hush," Glorfindel pleaded, squeezing her far too tightly.

"Glorfindel, gag her if you must! Every orc within a league of here shall hear her racket!"

And so he did, tying a strip of linen about her mouth. His heart filled with self-loathing at the deed, but he knew then that she was beyond consoling.

A rider came to him later, and passed into his hands Maia's doll. "She must have dropped it when she screamed,"

Seeing that the child was now asleep, he unbound her mouth and lashed the doll to his saddle. He ran his hand over through the fraying yarn that was its hair, and smoothed out what tangles he could. As he did so, its last button eye fell from its face and landed upon the leaf litter beneath Rocharon's feet.

Glorfindel cursed, and with a bitter grimace he thought to himself _"I am no good at this. I am no father," _

But he swore then to replace the doll entirely, and to buy the child new clothes. He swore to see that her hair was properly cut and braided, and that she would have decent shoes instead of going about barefoot like she now did. And he swore that no matter what opposition he might encounter, that he, Glorfindel Balrog-slayer, would find this innocent mortal girl a home, a family, and a new life.

The councilor rested his head against the cool surface of his desk, staring lackadaisically at a vast pile of scrolls he had meant to return to the library days ago.

_"I shall have a page attend to it,"_ he thought, but he never did. Instead, he lay upon his desk, indolent and unenthused, for hours.

Outside, the light faded into twilight. Inside, his time-keeping candle burned down into nothing but a puddle of wax and ash.

The councilor did not notice this at all. Instead, he stared unblinking and unmoving at absolutely nothing.

It was not until an anxious knock sounded upon his door for a third time that he roused himself.

"Enter," he called, straightening his robes and several pieces of wayward parchment in the process.

A page entered. "Glorfindel's party has been sighted, my lord. Master Elrond wishes for you to meet them with him,"

"Very well," the councilor said, waving the messenger away. The child, knowing well of the scholar's ever shortening temper (especially when it came to the mention of Glorfindel), nearly ran from the room.

The councilor stood before a mirror, meaning to address his looks. Instead, he was rendered motionless by the sight of his eyes. They lacked all memory of light or energy. Instead, they were like cold, steel buttons merely projecting a façade of liveliness.

He shook himself back to consciousness and ran a wet comb through his hair. It too was lackluster, as if it had been bathing in the dust that lay on so many of his books and tomes. As of late, he had had no will to care for his library. As of late, he had no will to care for much of anything.

He left his room with a baleful sigh, and walked in turgid silence to the Southern courtyard. There, Elrond was waiting for him. He grinned in earnest at his advisor, but it fell from his face when the grin was not returned.

"Welcome, Erestor. How has the day treated thee?"

"Fair, Elrond. And yourself?"

"Fair as well. The weather was amiable today, and I took advantage of it in my garden," Elrond said, sending a smile to the sky.

"That is well, sir," Erestor's tone was that of neutrality.

Elrond had thought he had learned the art of patience when he had first met his fiery, effervescent, and vastly and adorably immature wife.

He then thought he had learned the art of patience when his wife gave birth to twin boys. Later, he recounted and relabeled himself as such when his sons had first developed a passion for swordplay and later developed a similar taste for females.

By the time he had raised a daughter, Elrond had appointed himself the winner of the award for the most compassionate, even keeled creature to have ever walked the earth.

Erestor's sulking reversed any notion of such a thing now, and Elrond confronted his councilor with a brazen fire.

"I thought Glorfindel was the worst of the twain, but I was wrong! Too long have you been this aloof, austere creature, Erestor! Once there was a fire within thee, as vibrant as the stars, and you had love for all things in Imladris. You were once revered for your inner strength! Wherefore did that esteemed individual run off to, Erestor? And who is this stranger that has taken the place of my closest friend?"

Erestor had no comment, no way of replying. He stood amongst the pristine beauty of Imladris and the calls of birds and the songs of elves, and he was mute.

In the councilor's eyes was a dim vision of a memory, of a hope. He _had_ once been the life and the light of the upper classes of Imladris. He had been a popular dinner host, a sought-for musician, a famed author and orator. He held no such position now.

Now, Erestor was simply a vassal of a recollection, a walking wraith of joy and frivolity.

Elrond took him by the shoulders and dipped his head to meet Erestor's eyes.

"Do you not remember those days? Do you not remember _yourself_? For I do! I remember the days of your youth as well as I remember my own, for you have been my friend and my chief consultant for far longer than you have been my _Councilor_," Elrond steered Erestor towards a garden path and led him into a courtyard of roses and statues. He was quiet for a time, hoping that it might prod the Noldo into speaking. But the striking scenery and the awkward silence clinging to it did nothing to free the councilor's mind.

"Do you remember the day that you and Glorfindel announced your betrothal?" Elrond asked, sinking into his role not only as a healer of the body and spirit, but as a friend.

Erestor acknowledged this with a gentle nod. Elrond had thought that such a memory might awaken him.

"And do you remember that even though you faced opposition, those who loved you stood loyally by your sides, eager to see your happiness? For though your suit was a shock to many and a bone of contempt for some, your love for each other was as clear as dawn,"

Erestor nodded again, for such _had_ been the case.

"Those that stood by you then would stand by you again, if only you had the courage to ask for it, Erestor. For you are a great friend in the eyes of many, and friendship requires loyalty in both directions. There are many who would consent to anything if it might right your ill-mood. And that of Glorfindel's as well,"

Erestor was quiet yet, but a gentle glisten had returned to his eyes.

"Elrond, I would that such a case was. But what has been broken between Glor…," Erestor choked on the name, and looked away in shame. He swallowed once before continuing. "What has been broken between he and I has no name, and for that reason I do not think that it has an antidote,"

Erestor had stopped, now running his hands over the arms of a statue made in the likeness of Luthien. He met his old friend's eyes with hesitancy, and in a quiet, guilty voice he said, "I do not know the one who could right the wrongs between us,"

Elrond shook his head, thinking back to the early days of his own tumultuous marriage. "No one _can_ right the wrongs, whatever they may be, but Glorfindel and yourself. It is your marriage that has suffered, and it is _your_ duty to repair it. Others can stand by you and support you, but ultimately, we all must carry our own torches,"

A thrilling horn blow followed his words, and the two made their way back through the rose beds and the busts of stone. When they arrived in the parade grounds, now crowded with the family and lovers of the other hunters, the host of riders had just begun to enter.

Erestor's eyes looked for the great bay horse of his husband of their own accord, well practiced now in locating Rocharon after days of orc-hunting. He remembered then the younger days of his courtship, when upon news of the hunter's arrival, he would hide in the very rose garden he had recently walked through, to be joined by Glorfindel in a secret tryst. Now, after so many years since their secret love had become public gossip, meeting his husband after a hunt was mere habit.

But his eyes were unaccustomed to Glorfindel entering the city as the last of the riders. He was also unaccustomed to Glorfindel leading Rocharan into the city in a slow walk. Glorfindel had always made a point of arriving in full gallop and a tight rear, simply to reinforce his valiancy as a protector of the people and a hero of old.

Erestor, now concerned, strode hastily to his husband and took the great war horse's reigns. He looked up at Glorfindel in fear.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, scanning the high brow, the stubborn nose, the fierce collar bone he had memorized so many years before. His free hand had strayed to Glorfindel's leg, and he groped about for wounds or bandages.

"Nay, I am not hurt," Glorfindel said, a hint of thanks and relief seeping into his voice. Erestor's sudden approach had given him little time to brace for an argument.

But the hunter had let his guard down too soon.

"Then why are you trailing after your men like some vagabond? By gods, you are their captain, Glorfindel! You must lead them, even in symbolism! And _why_ must you insist on frightening me?"

Glorfindel merely shook his head and urged Rocharan forward, simply too exhausted to respond.

But he halted, for Erestor's shrill words had awoken the child sleeping in his cloak. As she stirred, Erestor's eyes fell upon her.

"What is this?" he asked.

Maia looked about, rubbing her eyes with filthy fists the size of apricots.

"We are here, Glorfindel? Or is this another nightmare?" she said, her voice so alarmingly weak that only the one she addressed could hear her.

"We are here, little one," Glorfindel whispered back, and he pulled her shivering frame back against him and into the confines of his cloak. He then looked to his bewildered husband.

"She is my charge. A refugee of war. Let me tend to her," he said. And he led Rocharan away, aiming straight for Elrond.

And Erestor, feeling lost and abandoned as he always had, looked after the blazing blonde and sky blue that shrouded the elf that had once been the love of his life.

And though he did not know it, he looked also at the one holding a little bearer of fading light in his arms. He looked after the one who was now carrying Erestor's torch as Glorfindel once had, so many years ago…


End file.
